


the pure-blood

by bluebeholder



Series: the accidental epic [30]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Character Study, Family Drama, Female Character of Color, Gen, Moral Dilemmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 10:19:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12746355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: It is 1929 and Leta Lestrange has been summoned home to the Lestrange family estate in order to meet on the subject of a portentous letter received by the family patriarch. More secrets than those contained in the letter are uncovered, though, and Leta begins to have to consider choices she never thought she would have to make.





	the pure-blood

**Author's Note:**

> [Hey, look, a Fantastic Beasts 2 promo photo](http://variety.com/2017/film/news/fantastic-beasts-2-title-first-photo-1202616420/).
> 
> This is my preemptive attempt to get Leta in early and well. She deserves a spot in the Accidental Epic universe and I am 100% here for the inclusion of more ladies of color. However, that promo image has me concerned that there might be some unpleasant racial stereotypes at play (in addition to the potential for unpleasant gender stereotypes, have you seen those costumes). Ergo I am moving to get ahead of the curve and give Leta some characterization based on what we know of her and what that photo showed us.
> 
> Point to ponder: Leta and Theseus are not engaged in this ’verse, nor will they be. The Scamander siblings as I have written them (as you will see eventually) are half-bloods. The Lestranges would not permit such a thing, and it's possible that Leta herself wouldn't do that--I'll let you judge her on her own merits.
> 
> Second point to ponder: up until this VERY DAY, this fic has _technically_ been canon-compliant. It's only now that we enter territory where I explicitly contradict canon facts, rather than just dancing around them and periodically poking holes in them. I plan to weave as much of the new stuff in as I can, but at the end of the day the Hypothetical Sequel is 90,000 words and counting and The End has been planned since mid-May. If this isn't what you want...I'm sorry. There's only so much I can do. I'm only human, and a very fallible one at that.
> 
> Now...without further ado: let's meet Leta Lestrange.

Being called home is a perpetually uncomfortable experience. Leta sweeps up the grand staircase with her head held high, ignoring the stares of the carvings on the walls. The marble rings under her feet, her steps the only sound in the vast entry. Even the torches, perpetually lit and casting a rich golden light, make not a crackle. Leta remembers balls held here, when music floated without a source from every corner of the room; today, the hall is empty. There are no strangers in the Lestrange ancestral home, not tonight. This is a night for family business.

Absently she drops the hem of her wine-red robes as she reaches the final step of the sweeping staircase. She’s used to wearing shorter dresses in the Muggle style lately, but she will always adore the elegant robes and gowns she was trained to wear before she could walk. The grace of wearing them comes naturally as they would never come to someone not trained to dress this way.

She pauses, as she always does, to look up at the motto carved in pride of place over the arched entry doors to the great hall of the manor: _Fidem Nostram Solus Sanguis._ “Loyalty to the blood is our only honor,” Leta murmurs. There’s a vague shiver on the back of her neck; those words always make her feel as if there are eyes on her. But she ignores it, as she ignores so many things whenever she comes home.

The doors swing open silently at her approach. Leta smiles and sweeps a graceful curtsy as she sees Fayette Lestrange waiting on the other side. Fayette—a Pure-Blood from France; the matriarch of the family and wife of patriarch Roland Lestrange—comes forward and takes Leta’s hands in hers.

“It’s good to see you home,” she says, kissing Leta on both cheeks.

Leta squeezes Fayette’s hands slightly before letting go. “It’s good to be home, Grandmother,” she says, returning the kisses lightly. “The letter was unexpected.”

“Things have happened very suddenly,” Fayette says. “Now come. We mustn’t keep anyone waiting. You aren’t the last to arrive; young Henry is always late, but we’ll begin without him. And without the others who are late, I think.”

Despite her age Fayette walks swiftly and Leta has to hurry to keep up. They don’t stay in the great hall of the manor, but turn left into the labyrinth of corridors in the sprawling wing of the private rooms of the family. They pass bust after statue after painting of ancestors, back to the period before the Middle Ages; Leta sees the wedding portrait of her mother Vivian Shacklebolt with her father Stuart Lestrange and smiles. They always look so _happy_. That's not how Leta remembers their later life, when the marriage had begun to deteriorate. Still, this is how she chooses to remember her parents.

In the family dining room, the rest of the family is waiting. Roland, gray and withered with his keen, kind eyes, and the signet ring on his finger, sits at the head, and Fayette hurries to stand behind him at his right shoulder, where she always is. Around the rest of the table are arrayed the family: the direct descendants first, Roland’s sons and daughters and their sons and daughters; after that are the cousins and the second-cousins.

Leta is near the foot of the table, not quite the furthest from Roland; her father was a second cousin and married a Shacklebolt besides. Though the Shacklebolts are Pure-Blooded to the core, they also have an uncomfortable habit of disagreeing with the Lestranges on nearly everything, which means Leta is well-loved but in a state of permanent semi-official disfavor.

There are other empty chairs, one of which definitely belongs to Henry, and Leta finds herself isolated by empty chairs to either side. She doesn’t remark upon it, only murmurs greetings to Alexander and Marcus, who might be her favorite cousins, and waves up the table to Theodosia. If the others are late, so be it.

“Let us begin,” Roland says. “Cultorum fidem in sanguine est.”

“Solus est,” the family choruses.

“Why have you called us all back, Father?” Livia says. She’s Roland’s favorite daughter; her children are the true heirs of the Lestrange line.

Roland leans back in his chair. “To discuss a letter I received three days ago,” he says. He takes up a piece of paper form the table. Leta watches as he taps his wand to it and the words strip themselves from the page, floating into the air where they can be read by the whole of the family.

_To the Honorable Roland Lestrange:_

_I seek your aid on behalf of the whole of the wizarding world. The time is coming when all pure-blooded wizards must decide where they will stand in the coming war. It is a war wherein we will regain our status and our power, retaking our rightful dominion over those without magic. Gone will be the days of fear and trembling; gone will be our unfounded terror of discovery._

_You are the patriarch of an ancient and noble lineage. Where you go, others shall follow. Call upon your allies, the Sacred Twenty-Eight, or at least those of the right intent and nobility to serve the greater good of all wizardkind.  This is a call to arms. In the name of our children and a better future which they have so long been denied, I beg you: join us. The loyalty of the blood is your honor, and we are your blood._

_I have the honor to be_

_Your Obedient Servant_

_Gellert Grindelwald_

Murmurs of intrigue and alarm erupt all around the table. Leta keeps her mouth shut. She’s neither stupid nor blind; to say anything now is to draw attention she doesn’t want at all. She just reads the message again and waits until Roland calls for silence.

“I am of a mind,” he says slowly, “to heed this call. It is true that our blood is our most sacred loyalty, and this will help our sisters and brothers of all nations. Upon which families can we rely, if we call to them?”

“The Malfoys,” Azalea says. She raises her chin with pride, the pride of a Malfoy despite the name she’s taken now. She’s as pale and blonde as all her line, like a ghost. Or perhaps, considering the shrillness of her voice, Leta thinks with an internal smirk, she’s as pale as a banshee. “They will heed us.”

Marcus leans forward so that Roland can see him. He’s currying favor; given his seat at the table, it might just be working. He was closer to Leta last time she saw him here. “The House of Black has always been our friend.”

“I have heard that Torquil Travers went abroad,” old Martin says. He’s one of the oldest of the family at a hundred and fifty, but not a direct heir; still, his word is as well-heeded as Roland’s. “And they say that Druella Rosier has been out and about far more than is usual.”

The implications are not lost on anyone. The Travers and Rosier families are already involved, in that case. Leta leans back and folds her hands in her lap. She’s not surprised, really; Torquil was always a violent boy at Hogwarts.

“The Carrows and the Averys,” someone else says.

“Crouch!”

“Nott!”

“Perhaps the Rowles,” Fayette says softly in her husband’s ear.

“The Gaunts are useless, a dying line,” Llewellyn says, scorn lacing his voice. “The Yaxleys are weak, and the Prewetts are indecisive. We can count on none of them.”

Roland nods, brow heavy and furrowed. “Then there are ten, of twenty-eight,” he says. “Ten upon whom we can rely. Families who understand the strength of blood and the need for loyalty.”

“And the others?” Hecate, one of the eldest witches of the family, asks. “The Longbottoms? The Weasleys? The Abbotts?”

Azelea gives a poisonous look down the table at Leta. “The Shacklebolts?”

Leta’s stomach drops. “They will heed us,” she says, looking to Roland under her lashes. “These are pure-blooded families, Grandfather. They understand these matters as well as any of us here.”

“Will they?” Hecate asks. “Or will we find ourselves opposed?”

“They know where their loyalties lie,” Leta says. She still speaks to Roland; his word is law.

“Hm,” Roland says, inclining his head in acknowledgement. “For now there shall be no fighting. This is not a summons to attack, I think. It is a call to be ready for what is coming. Prepare yourselves, my family. Our blood is our only loyalty in these coming times of danger. I will call upon you soon enough.”

The dismissal is plain and with nods and murmured excuses the family rises to make their exit as quickly as they can. Roland calls for Marcus and Llewellyn to stay behind—Leta knows immediately that they’ll be the ones sent off to Grindelwald immediately. She ducks out before anyone can speak to her, but in the hallway Theodosia catches up.

“Exciting business,” she says, linking arms with Leta. “Think you’ll go if you’re called?”

“Of course,” Leta says diffidently. The words are plainly false, but she says them with all the sincerity she has. Truly, Leta doubts that she would actually go and fight for Grindelwald if asked. Something about the whole cause makes her deeply uneasy, though she's not examined it deeply. She looks sideways at Theosdosia, the perfect pale Lestrange in her voluminous and elegant black gown, the engagement ring that ties her to Samuel Avery on full glittering display on her finger. “Will you?”

Theodosia smiles. “Of course,” she says.

They take a right turn and emerge into a great hall of mirrors. The mirrors are enchanted to show different scenes on any given day; today, it seems as though Theodosia and Leta walk through a galaxy of stars. They had played here as children, romping in mirrored forests or on golden shores. These days, Leta isn’t often home long enough to even hurry through here; to have the chance to promenade with her cousin is lovely.

“Azalea was cruel to single out the Shacklebolts,” Theodosia says abruptly, halfway down the hall.

“She was right,” Leta feels compelled to say. “They are not a family which is…aligned, shall we say, with the ideals of blood loyalty and honor. There are blood traitors enough among them!”

Theodosia’s lips compress. “Well, you do not have to be a blood traitor in order to be tactful. Only a Malfoy could be so gauche. It was cruel to you and had we been anywhere else I would have demanded an apology on your behalf.”

The comment startles a laugh out of Leta. “You’re kinder to me than I deserve.”

“You are my family, Leta,” Theodosia says. She stops and takes Leta’s hands. “There are difficult times coming, and I fear…I fear many things. But you must know that I will be with you, come what may.”

Leta searches her cousin’s eyes. Theodosia is utterly guileless, or at least appears to be. Every woman of the family knows perfectly well how to pretend, hiding motive behind a beautiful smile and a graceful hand. The fact, then, that Theodosia has approached Leta with this indicates that there are other things happening in the family than those she can see. Perhaps better, there are more things happening than Leta is _allowed_ to see. Otherwise Theodosia would never be so blunt.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Leta says with a genuine smile. Theodosia has always been her favorite cousin, and that looks like it won’t change any time soon.

But then they’re at the doors, and as they step out of the Hall of Mirrors they’re accosted by people looking to amuse themselves with Theodosia’s skill at wizard chess and Leta’s piano-playing. No mention is ever made of Leta’s actual profession, because being a common Curse-Breaker at Gringotts Bank is beneath a Lestrange, no matter how much money Leta gets paid.

The rest of the day passes with alarming rapidity. There’s no more talk of Grindelwald, except that at dinner Roland raises a glass to Marcus and Llewellyn “for luck in all their endeavors as they tour the Continent!” Everyone knows what that means, and Leta finds herself draining her glass rather than sipping. The world is tilting underneath her, anxieties she’s buried under layers of denial and years of pretense rising to the surface. With new eyes, she takes note again of the fact that, except for her, every person in the room is pale as porcelain. She is the only one, furthermore, who is a descendant of a family not approved of by Roland.

Her nerves are jangling.

A house-elf escorts her to her room that night, aired out specifically for her arrival. Leta locks the door behind her, nervous for reasons she refuses, just yet, to name. She lets the enchanted wardrobe give her a nightgown and take her robes; her suitcase has been unpacked already and her little valise sits still locked on the desk. The covers on the bed turn themselves back invitingly, and a silver tea service for one comes to rest beside the bed as the lights dim, but Leta ignores the hospitality.

She goes to the desk and sits down, opening the valise. It’s got the small arsenal without which she never travels. Potions, journal, collapsible cauldron, dragonhide gloves, ink and quill, arcane ingredients, talismans—Leta might specialize in English curse-breaking but there’s every bit as much danger in an ancient king’s barrow as there is in an Aztec pyramid. But what she’s interested in just now are the ordinary journal, quill, and ink.

In a specific pattern, she taps her wand on the cover of the book. It’s locked to prevent anyone else from getting inside; should they simply open it without the code, the book will appear perfectly blank. Leta doesn’t bother with recording anything. Instead, she simply rips out a page from the middle of the journal, choosing at random, and wipes away the writing with a careless flick of the wand.

She has to get ahead of the coming storm, and that means arming herself with every bit of knowledge she can find. Leta already knows that, no matter her personal proclivities, her position in this family is precarious indeed. She will not be allowed to join Grindelwald, even if she agreed with his methods, which she isn’t exactly sure she does. She has to build a new position of power outside the family, and she has to do it quickly. Who will she call upon, to make a foundation for herself? That’s really the question here.

Leta is not deaf to rumors. She isn’t an Auror but she hears plenty, all the same; everyone in the business of security consultation and the like knows everybody else. And rumor has it that one of Leta’s old friends has come very close indeed to Gellert Grindelwald. She doesn’t know where _he_ is, but she knows where someone related is. Setting the page on the cover of her journal so there won’t be impressions left behind on the desk, Leta begins to write.

_Dear Mr. Theseus Scamander…_


End file.
